


✿The Scorch Trials: Untold Chapters

by crankparadise



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Other, The Scorch Trials - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 09:54:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3605841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crankparadise/pseuds/crankparadise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fanfic narrating the section of The Scorch Trials where the Gladers and Jorge have been separated from Thomas and Brenda due to an Explosion planted by Cranks. Jorge, Minho, Newt and the other Gladers, have no choice but to make their own way toward the Mountain to the Safe Haven. Picking up right after canon chapter 29 of TST and running parallel to Thomas’ narrative, this is the journey through the City that you didn’t get to hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Weight of Leadership

**Author's Note:**

> cue overly-dramatic title...
> 
> I’ve always been really curious about what actually happened in the Scorch Trials when the Gladers and Jorge were separated from Thomas for what must have been a few days. We never do get to hear what happened to them, since Thomas is the only narrative we get to hear throughout the whole series. So this fanfic happened!  
> There are technically no stated relationships in this fic as I wanted to keep it as if it were running though canon, but like my own interpretation of the relationships in the canon book series, there's minewt & thominewt if you squint!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Feedback is more than welcome!  
> & thanks to my lovely betas commodorenewt & tewanted ! ♥

After the unidentified explosion, it became as if any established leadership had been lost somewhere among the dust and metal debris. Minho, Newt and the other eight or so Gladers who had escaped the explosion the same way, didn’t have time to think about any alternative plan that wasn’t following Jorge at speed down a splintered and narrow hallway. The sound of metal pulling from it’s frames and the crash of wall against wall was still ringing in their ears as they ran in a small crowd. Minho was further up front with Jorge taking lead.

If Jorge had any uncertainty about where he was heading or what had caused the explosion, he certainly didn’t show it. He was impossibly fast, and although he didn’t show any indication that he cared who was following him, he appeared to be calculating their escape as he ran, Gladers included.  
Due to his speed, most of the boys had quickly fallen behind Jorge; even Minho was struggling to keep up, making him clench his jaw in frustration. He told himself it was due to the pain in his body from the burns and not because the crank was  _faster_ ,  _better_ , than him. Right now, his pride blinded him before all else, this lousy Crank was threatening both his position as leader, and his speed; which were things he had to firmly establish.   
There was a voice in the back of his head that told him he’d probably be dead sooner than be anywhere near the decent leader his friends needed him to be.

They turned another sharp corner and Minho’s wounds burned at the abrupt twisting of his joints. This new hallway was significantly wider and unlike the rest of the ruined building, it also seemed to be becoming less and less damaged the further they ran into it. He’d already checked briefly to see if Newt was following and with that soon confirmed, he became absent to his surroundings and beat on with nothing on his mind but matching Jorge’s speed. As they reached the end of the hallway, it opened up into an aged but unsettlingly plush and out-of-place room which, although without a staircase, looked like the landing of some sort of abandoned luxury mansion. This couldn’t possibly be part of the building that they had thought looked like an underground train-station, where they all ate before the explosion, could it?  
  
Jorge then stopped abruptly with a raised hand, as still and calculated as a wild cat preparing to pounce. The strength in the man’s tensed body caused Minho to smash into him, but the hard collision barely affected Jorge’s rigid stance. Minho however, toppled backwards with a thud, much to the dismay of his burns. He spat out a breath from his gritted teeth as he glared up at Jorge’s back.

"The shuck was that about, man?" He barked at him, saying it before he actually knew what he was questioning: whether it was the explosion, the running or the sudden stopping.

Jorge span a quick 180 degrees to face Minho, but he didn’t look at him, he didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. His sight was no doubt somewhere in his ears as he seemed to be listening all the more intently for… something. His thick brows were knotted and his sharp jaw was clenched in hesitation, or perhaps apprehension. Then, as if on cue, Jorge snapped his fingers, and what looked like a huge balcony above and in front of them them, which would have crushed them had they ran just four feet further, collapsed.

The balcony and the fixtures that held it, crashed down behind Jorge and broke through to the same floor they were standing on. Decorative metal and wall fixture crashed through the wooden structure of the ground, it must have been rotting to have fallen through so easily. As the ground shook, Minho heard some of the other gladers fall behind him, shaken off their feet by the impact. The balcony fell into some further floor below them, which unsettled Minho as he had been sure they had been on a ground floor. The sinking feeling that he couldn’t even grasp the layout of a building nevermind a City, made him suddenly long for the maze for a moment, but only for a moment.

His jaw fell slack at the man ahead, mostly due to the sheer absurdity that Jorge had basically predicted the fall of the balcony.   
The man looked inappropriately smug as he stood about an inch before the crater. The whole floor was now impossible to cross, any alternate routes had been cut off, with the exception of one beat-up, but strong enough looking plank on the right-hand side. The plank looked to be their only way towards escape.  
Beyond the plank could only have be an opening to the City. The light of the outside glared in from large slits in a loosely constructed boarded-up wall. It was so weakly constructed that it either looked as if it had been badly boarded up or roughly torn down.

Falling like the debris, the remaining gladers and Aris flopped on the ground behind and at either side of Minho. Or at least he assumed them all Gladers, he didn’t even think to look behind for Cranks that might be following them. While struggling to normalize their breathing, some of the boys lifted themselves to gape at the crater caused by the balcony collapsing. Minho had to remind himself once again that not all of these kids were runners.  He could clearly see it now how some of them looked like they were about to pass out from the running or were nursing stitches from running so soon after eating, and most of them were panting like their lungs were endless vaccuums.

He let his contempt for Jorge burn away and he jumped back to his feet in front of the others, who were still jutting to breathless stops and hitting the floor as soon as they could. Newt followed last, dragging his limp along as his eyes darted around the faces of each glader, frantically counting them as he did almost every 20 minutes, to Minho’s every frustration. In Minho’s head, whoever was a dumb enough shank to get lost at this point was only a burden, and definitely deserved to be left behind. But that wasn’t Newt, he never wanted to leave anyone behind no matter who they were. Despite the obvious discomfort that Newt ran with, he didn’t appear out of breath. Either he hadn’t been running for the last stretch or he was too busy confirming the well-being of the others to breathe himself. His mouth was still loosely forming around names Minho didn’t care about before he finally counted Minho and met his eyes.

"Tommy." He breathed out rather than spoke. His eyes heavy with dread. "We bloody lost  _Tommy_.”  
Any of Minho’s remaining hope sunk then, and he cringed with guilt at the fact that he had so nonchalantly included Thomas in his apathy towards those who made it, and those who didn’t.  
"And Brenda." Jorge said, probably more fiercely than necessary. "Who _"_ Tommy" will be fine with, it’s yourselves you need to worry about.” Jorge turned back towards the crater again.  
Minho watched him, it was all he could do as he was apparently lost for words. His mouth felt dry, and not with his usual sarcastic tone. Listening to Newt pat the backs of some breathless Gladers behind him, Minho still watched Jorge. He watched him adjust a compass on his wrist and then another watch-like device that clicked twice; he then he took a quick look around at the boys, before adjusting his pack and kicking with feeling at some of the fallen debris that he had apparently predicted.

"It’s been fun, but the last thing I’m doing is going back to the crank party to save your ugly friend. Turn around now and you’re on your own, see you moochers in hell." His words were dark, but hard to read as he toyed them in his mouth with a hint of playful cruelty.  
Then Jorge started walking with a stride in his step across the single plank of wood, the only solid foundation across the hole that the fallen balcony had left. He gestured what was probably a rude sign towards the Gladers as he strode on. Minho noticed how some of the other boy’s bodies lurched towards Jorge’s lead before they stopped to look at their leader for command.

He felt the hopeful eyes of his friends burning into his skin stronger than lightening ever could.

"We need to go back for him." Newt said quietly, and some of the eyes dispersed to him then. Some still looked at Minho and some looked on ahead where Jorge was walking, all of them searching desperately for leadership. Aris was looking at the ground.

Minho knew he was meant to be the leader but here he was completely torn with no idea what to do: Thomas was who knows where, possibly dead, and cranks were probably homing in on them to pounce any second. Not to mention the shady guy who knew the area was taking off alone.   
The tattoo on his shoulder suddenly felt very heavy.  
  
Jorge must have heard Newt because he barked out a laugh and span around on his heels to face them.  
"You bunch of babies really have no idea what kinda shit you’re in now, do you?" He strode back towards them again. Again, there was that definite malicious quality in his words, but the colour in his voice, his theatrical stride and the slight lean back in his posture was all unsettlingly playful.  
"That explosion? That was a bunch of some real nice Cranks breaking in all good and ready to eat your little baby  _cojones_.” Minho noted how the man used a lot of hand gestures as he spoke, as well as leaning back and forth in rhythm to his words, as if movement was vital to get his point across.  
"Your little friend is either dead right now, or smart enough to trust Brenda and get himself out of  _here_ , and towards  _that mountain_. ” He pointed in the direction of every emphasised word, before he shrugged. His expression was still brooding and teasing.  
"I realise the latter is unlikely, but Brenda’s no idiot, and she’s a real leader too." His dark eyes flashed to Minho. He turned again and continued walking away.

Despite all the anger in him, Minho could only stand and glare, his mind was everywhere. He willed himself to speak, to say anything, show the Gladers they still had a leader, but nothing came out. He wasn’t intimidated by Jorge, not in the slightest but it was becoming clear to Minho that his actual leadership abilities didn’t live up to his pride. The immense pressure he had put himself under, to be the best for the sake of them all, was really beginning to cause cracks.  
  
Newt, however, was losing patience behind him.  
"Well you two can bloody play alpha here all you want, I’m goin’ back to find Tommy."  
Minho instinctively threw his hand behind him to grab Newt’s wrist. His eyes dropped to the ground and darted around it as if an answer would be among the torn wallpaper and shattered bits of wood. He needed to get himself together, the lack of leadership was so unlike him, or maybe it was always like him. If he would just speak, what was stopping him from taking lead?  
  
"I wouldn’t do that angelface." Jorge said, stopping with his feet spaced wide and confident. He then let out a low chuckle, the distance in his voice meaning he was quite far from them now, obviously basking in the upperhand he still held. He turned to wink at Newt and mock-shuddered before turning back the way he was heading and walking again.  
"Especially not you, cranks have special fun with their dinner if it happens to be  _pretty_.”  
  
The comment made Minho’s stomach lurch and his head snap up, and some of the Gladers must have felt the same way, as they had riled up and edged closer to Newt. Newt just ignored them all, unfazed by anything that wasn’t the object at hand. When Minho looked back towards him, he was surprised to see that it was his own wrist that was being held by Newt rather than the other way round. It seemed despite his statement before, Newt had barely turned away to leave at all and was looking at Minho sternly.

"Remind him of the bloody deal. Sound confident, I was sure you could do this. Don’t make me remind you of your buggin’ tattoo again."

"Hey  _shuckface!_ " Minho finally shouted ahead as he turned back towards Jorge. Despite feeling unscripted and suddenly cold inside, Newt’s push had helped him rebuild his weak attempt at leading the group.  
"Last I checked, we had a shuckin’ deal!" Jorge stopped walking, though still not facing them and Minho let out a breath of relief.

"Remind me what I get out of being your personal tourgide _._ " The man called back from where he stood. " _Without,_  your monkey words.”

Minho dropped his voice to Newt.  
"Why can’t we just follow him? I don’t see why we have to beg the shuckin’ shank." Minho muttered to his friend, his pride felt like it was seeping out of his every nerve.   
  
Newt was still at his ear.  
"He’s just playing the upperhand, and trying to scare us. He knows more than we do about this place and he just wants us to prove we need him. Don’t you think he would have done something about the plank if he didn’t want us following him? It’s a  _game_ , Minho, just don’t say anything stupid.”

"C’mon man!" Minho called out to Jorge again. "You know this place better than we do, and you know that we’ve have a cure waiting for us with your name on it. Don’t bail on us now, we had a deal _!_ ”

"A deal that I was sure didn’t involve baby-sitting.”

"Dude, we’re not as dumb as we look, we’ll fight if we have to and you need a group out there.” Minho said through gritted teeth. The self-directed insults must have worked because Jorge had slowly lifted his chin back towards them, raising an eyebrow.  
"Alright  _muchacho,_  I’ll bite, but no more baby games. You, limpy, and the rest of your hairy friends will follow my orders from here on out.” Minho didn’t want to argue in the slightest, he would be more than relieved to hand over leadership, even to this twisted crank. But he felt the burn of Newt’s eyes, careful breaths at his ear, edging him on as always.  
  
"You and I lead together for now, until we all fully trust you." Minho responded.

"Fine, fine. I only guide." Jorge waved the words away before he turned around fully and his waving hand fixed into a firm point, directly at Minho. "I’m getting that cure. I’ll kill  _you_ , and all your little friends  _personally_ before I die a Crank.”

Minho shrugged.  
"I’ll hand you the gun myself." He said solemnly.

” _And.._ " Jorge’s whole figure was drenched in shadow. He jutted his pointed finger out further at Minho.  
"We don’t go back for bird-face. We don’t go back for  _anyone_  who gets killed out there or worse. I can do my best out there, but I can’t guarantee a single thing.”  
Minho heard Newt adjust his footing, but otherwise the room was deathly silent, his stomach knotted. Thomas would be fine with Brenda, surely?  
”Fine." Minho finally said, his jaw aching from how hard it was clenched.  
Jorge smirked and his eyebrows moved to a satisfied raised position. Then his eyes narrowed and his pointed hand ran along them all before he turned facing his original direction. But it wasn’t over, as he only tucked one hand behind him and the other was raised, cupping his ear in their direction.

"Thank him." Newt whispered.  
"Can’t I just  _punch_  him? he isn’t looking.” Newt gripped the trapped wrist tighter with the strength that Minho always forgot he had.

”Thank you _._ " Minho said through gritted teeth, unwilling to offer even the slightest sense of satisfaction to Jorge.  
Jorge visibly nodded the opposite way before tucking his hand to join the other at the small of his back, then he confidently strode on once again. The other Gladers followed him immediately in a jog, crossing the same plank one-by-one as Jorge had done without even so much as a second thought.

"Good that." Newt said from somewhere behind.

"You can let go of your monkey now  _papi_ , he did good.” Jorge called back as he cackled further ahead of them. Newt quickly dropped his hands that were holding Minho’s wrist, which Jorge surely shouldn’t have been able to see, as it was firmly out of his line of vision. Minho didn’t care, as skeptical as he was of this Jorge guy, he was just glad the crank wanted to take the weight of leadership that he had never asked for.  
"Tommy will be fine.” Newt muttered, pulling the words apart in the way he always did when he needed to be reassured. Though it was more to himself than to anyone else because he knew Minho wasn’t even thinking about Thomas right now. Then, crossing the same plank, the two of them started walking, following the outstretched shadow that Jorge left as he lead them towards the City. They moved through chunks of building foundation, their shoes crunching over bits of splintered glass and what was once ceiling plaster. Minho didn’t see how Newt’s eyes shook, or how he looked back multiple times, because he never drew his own eyes away from their new, show-off, cocky  _slinthead_  of a leader, hating the guy from every corner of his faked ego and with every inch of his wilting pride.   
The two of them quickly caught up with Jorge and the other Gladers.

"First stop, gather weapons, we left a lot of them behind. Also food. We head through the other side of the city towards the mountains.” Jorge said as he and some of the other Gladers tore an opening through the loosely constructed wall, each squinting as they came into the glare of the sun once again. The city ahead of them seemed surreal compared to the blazing nothingness of the Scorch, Minho had no idea what awaited them there, none of them did.

The City was deserted-looking, entirely devoid of people and caked with dust, but at least it would protect them from the baking sun, any other forms of vicious weather and of course, Cranks. As they all timidly stepped into to the scalding light with Jorge firmly ahead of them, Newt gently nudged Minho and pointed, Minho focused his eyes to follow Newt’s shaking finger which pointed to a large sign, imprinted in bold on the side of a crumbling wall:

##  **"THOMAS, YOU’RE THE REAL LEADER."**

Minho sighed, too tired of this sort of thing to let himself be unnerved by the startling coincidence, maybe the heat was making him hallucinate. He saved a second to glare once more at Jorge, who’s image swayed in the tangible heat of the sun.

"Couldn’t agree more." He muttered, and the Gladers followed their new Crank leader, making their way towards the impending City.


	2. A Yellow Coat Where Wings Should Be

It was just past noon, the sun was at its most piercing. There was no point in hurrying to trek straight to the mountain under the scorching midday sun. Fed and watered for now, the boys had energy in their veins. But the current fullness of their stomachs was a comfort that wouldn't last. So, their first step was to take care of the fact that they were almost completely unarmed, and without food. 

While they had been walking, anxiety had grown in the minds of the Gladers. This arose due to the signs plastered on every available surface about Thomas being the "real leader". The one that Newt pointed out to Minho, wasn’t a one off. They were everywhere. Like a poison, the unsettling presence of the signs had unsettled the majority of the group. The signs were on the sides of buildings and branded into battered curbs. They had been roughly hammered onto homes that had been empty for years. They were hanging off dead trees. Some even replaced the licence plates of some burnt out cars.   
  
The signs felt like a revolution was growing in the City, with Thomas as the forefront. But was it for their side, or against them? 

As they walked further into the City, most of the boys made reference to the signs, first in glances, then mentioned in paranoid muttering. Their original mistrust of Thomas from the Glade was seeping back in his absence. Even Aris looked unnerved. The feelings of mistrust and distress had re-grown among the group like a disease. Yet Minho and Newt remained silent and in denial about the signs. They were definitely unnerved by them. But at least the coincidental signs confirmed Thomas' importance, increasing his chance of surviving without them. The undertones of distress and mistrust soon blossomed into visible anger and fear. These feelings stood between them like an unwelcome ghost; invisible and dividing them.   
  
It came to the point that it was all that they could think about, especially when the words stood out on a billboard next to one of the Chancellor. Jorge had no choice but to address the issue, to relieve the anxiety that the signs were causing among the group. He soon put the matter to bed; explaining that the signs only confirmed Thomas' importance, increasing the necessity that they follow anything to do with him. Follow him, to get a cure, and assure their own survival. Then he had looked at Newt and Minho like he knew. He told them that, since the signs were everywhere, even the Cranks will keep Thomas alive. Even as if it was as a hostage. It was a small hope, but they clung onto it for dear life, as it was all they had. They pushed the issue to the back of their minds. Thomas was gone, for now. But the weight of his significance felt like a presence itself, making it like he had never left at all.  
  
They crossed the cluster of crusty buildings that they hadn't noticed were so close. The group had decided to take to some of the less obvious routes. Heading towards what must have been the centre of the City. Jorge had made a show of listening to the ground for Cranks. Then, he swooped his head around at all angles for any sign of them.    
  
They found they were without any unwanted company, for now.    
  
So they made their weary way into a set of darkening alleys, which relieved them from the sun. But it did anything but relieve them of their anticipation for danger. The alleys were intimidating and intersecting. They were piled high with boxes upon boxes of trash and unwanted furniture. They were also crowded with full, car-sized trash crates. These smelt like death itself. They were protected from the sun by the alley walls but despite this, they were cooking in the inescapable baking heat of the sun.   
  
"Alright, my ugly ducklings." Jorge finally said, after they escaped the sun, having walked into the middle of the alien alleys. He drew in a long snort, and spat it over to his right.   
"First stop, I have a glamorous job for us. Spread out here, and look for anything sharp enough to kill with among these trash cans. Oh, and also, anything strong enough to tie them to, and strong enough to tie them with."   
  
There was no argument. They were happy to finally have something constructive to do, as well to have something to distract them from the signs about Thomas. The group dispersed into twos and threes, digging through the huge crates of trash, among the unwanted furniture that decorated the alleys. The mood lightened as the boys began to chatter among themselves as they worked, finally having a chance to goof around. Jorge was still barking advice at them as they scattered further on. He said something about glass and something about avoiding longer sticks. There was no doubt among them that the guy knew what he was doing.   
  
Within minutes, they were making great progress. They had almost a dozen makeshift weapons piled up where they alleys intersected; which though looked shabby, still looked somewhat threatening. There were already enough weapons for two each. But they planned to make more than they needed for obvious reasons. In case some got broken or damaged as they used them. The boys were familiar with constructing makeshift objects and weapons out of whatever they had, or whatever they could find. The chore felt like they were back in the glade. The intersecting alley paths felt like the maze. These similarities were shudder-worthy so no one addressed them out loud. In their minds, the boys couldn't decide whether spending their afternoon in this place, making weapons this way, was reminding them of home, or of hell.   
  
"Still more glamorous than trudgin' through that buggin' desert under bedsheets." Newt said. Minho found himself smiling then; which was odd, given everything.   
  
"Don't act like you didn't love sharing that sheet with me, shank." He responded. "That was some cosy stuff."   
  
Within 20 minutes, Minho and Newt found themselves hunting on their own, away from the rest of the group. In that time, Newt had already found the end of a hammer and a load of barbed wire; as well as a sharp slate and a large old sock that he threw at Minho. Minho had managed to find a small ball of cord and a pounding headache from the heat. He finally planted himself on the ground, dust lifting into the air around him as he did. They must have been doing this for hours now. He brushed away the brown air and looked up. Just in time to see Newt scraping grime off a large trash crate. It roughly revealed the words "SCRAP METAL". He watched as Newt unhinged it with his trusty hammer-end and climbed in. His long legs dangled for a moment. Then he vanished into the crate.   
  
"Scrap metal my ass, there's bloody nothing metal in here. Unless you count empty tins." Newt's voice was like metal. It was tinny and echoed.    
"Oh, whats- ha, hey Min', I found another bedsheet we-" Newt was cut off by a metallic clang.    
  
At the sudden noise, Minho lifted his head from his ball of cord, surprised to see the bin that Newt was in, fall back to its original position. It must have lifted on one side for a second. As if something had weighed down the side Newt had climbed into. A scrawny looking cat with barely any fur on its body at all scrambled out, then, clumsy claws bared with fright. It ran for cover behind Minho, who was already laughing.   
"Newt, you okay buddy? Make a friend in there?" He called coyly. Some of the other Gladers had poked round to see what was so funny, Frypan, Aris and a few others. The seconds of no response that followed made Minho's heart sink. Grim expressions formed around him. The Gladers closed in further and Minho jumped to his feet.    
  
"Newt?" Minho tried again.   
  
The group relaxed when Newt poked his head out of the bin a second later. But Minho didn't relax, something wasn't right. Newt's eyes were wide, his breathing hitched in shock. He babbled something unintelligible, staring at something at the opposite side of the crate. A thin scratch was starting to blossom into a cut on his cheekbone.   
  
"Minho, you won't,  _believe_  what's-"   
  
"IVAN!" A shrill voice shrieked from behind Newt, it came from within the trash crate. The sound bounced off the inside of the crate and all around them, echoing off the walls of the alleys. Then Newt was yanked abruptly back with another clang, a small flash of yellow scrambled out of the crate. climbing over him. Minho was there in an instant, running to where Newt was. But the small form speedily jumped down and ran through his legs after the cat. Minho gathered Newt out of the bin and helped him climb out. Newt rebuked the help as he always did, touching the scratch on his face. No one else moved. So Minho ran back over aiming to tackle the mysterious yellow creature. To show it who was in-charge.   
  
"Don't, Minho. It's a kid." Newt said quickly, sounding as confused as they all looked, his words stopped Minho in his tracks.   
"It's a little girl." Newt said again.   
  
"You ruiner! You stupid ruiner!" The little girl shouted at Newt, shaking her grubby fists at either side of her. Her small size said she couldn't have been more than four or five years old. Her mousy-blonde hair was long, tangled into bunches at the ends and reached the end of her coat.   
"You made Ivan scared and now he's gone!" She hugged herself, huffing and blinking away tears. Then she threw her arms behind herself. Baring her tiny teeth with fists pointed behind her in defence. She edged forward towards the group of boys, snarling, by no means intimidated by them.   
  
"What are you looking at?" She shrieked at them and snapped her clean teeth like an angry puppy. She must have thought she looked like a Crank. When what she actually looked like was a little girl pretending to be a Crank.   
  
Frypan and a few others actually stepped back at her advance. Minho finally rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of the entire situation.   
  
"You gotta be shuckin' me." He muttered. "Look, I dunno what you want, kid-"   
  
"Don't call me 'kid',  _kid!_ " The little girl snapped back. Then to the shock of the other Gladers, she produced a tiny kitchen knife, pointing it at Minho. It was oddly very reminiscent of how Brenda had threatened him before. The boys stepped back and this time Minho raised his arms too. A little girl versus a group of 6 teenage boys, yet the little ball of anger had full control.   
  
"Tell me what  _you_  want!  _Kid!_ "She yelled.   
  
All the boys came in to explain at once.   
  
"She's like a shuckin' gremlin..."   
  
"Slim it kid, we ain't here to cause any hurt. Ya' dumb little-"   
  
"We were just looking... in the trash for sharp things."   
  
"You just go into your little trash hut all nice and good."   
  
"Shh, the lot of you can slim it altogether, it's my fault. I'm sorry I scared your cat, darlin'." Newt's voice was soft, and due to this, the little girl turned to him, lowering her tiny knife. She looked particularly frightened by the boys' sudden bombardment of explanations. Kneeling down, Newt dipped his head at the little girl. "I'm sure he'll come back, what's your name?"   
  
"Yeah, Newt. Perfect time for baby talk." Minho said. "Sure, he'll come back. He'll come cruisin' right back in a stretch limo with a magic wand. Then he'll cure us all of the shuckin' Flare." Minho strode over to the kid. Her childlike attention was still grasped by the gentleness in Newt's voice; it seemed to have knocked off all her defensiveness. Before she could answer the question, Minho swiped the tiny knife out of her hand, tossing it to Frypan. Then he gathered up the yelping, struggling bundle of yellow which was trying her best to bite his hand. He placed her back into the metal crate.   
  
As he caught a glimpse of the inside of the crate, Minho felt a jab at his heart. This little girl hadn't been hiding, she must have lived here. The crate was roughly the width of a small car. It was lined with blankets in a careful way too neat to be the work of a child. It was littered with empty tins as well as a lot of full tins. There were sad-looking pillows; one must have been for the cat. There was also a pile of small tattered books and an old cuddly toy.    
  
Minho stepped back; someone had put her here, recently, maybe for good. She shrieked and waved her arms to get out of the crate. But with her tiny limbs and without Newt as her ladder she was trapped. Panicking and upset by the whole ordeal, she began to cry.   
  
"Oy oy, what's going on over here? A social gathering?" Jorge's rough voice parted the semicircle of boys. The little girl was wailing and trashing about in the crate. Her arms were in frantic motion, her small hands grabbing at nothing. She was reaching for the source of the kind voice before. Sighting the distraught little girl, Jorge folded his arms. He turned to glower at Minho. The boys started chattering in explanation together once again. Jorge silenced them with a single loud clap.   
"One at a time! I don't have much mental health left to spare on you kids. Care to explain the hold up, monkey-boy?"   
  
"N-, We were looking in this scrap metal crate thing, and there was a kid in it. That's all, no hold up. We put it back where it came from, we can head on." Minho stomped out of the circle to retrieve more make-shift weapons; he was trying to appear gruff and tired of the commotion on the outside, trying to stifle the sunken feeling he had on the inside. The feeling that came with seeing the little girl's few belongings which was only emphasised by hearing her cry, reaching for freedom.   
  
Jorge turned his glare on the little girl. She hid most of her face behind the edge of the cart, sniffing hard every few seconds. The little girl's eyes darted back to Newt. He nodded in encouragement at her.   
  
"My cat ran away." She said to Jorge in a small voice.   
  
Something must have softened in the man then. He tutted like he understood.    
"These idiots scare your kitty away?"   
  
She nodded fast, looking frightened and half confused. Then Jorge covered his mouth and chin in thought. The other boys erupted again, bickering over what they should do about the child. Newt moved in towards the girl, and her tears stopped. Delighted at finally getting his attention, she grabbed fistfuls of Newt's hair gratefully.   
  
"What are we gonna do, you ask?!" Frypan's voice rose above the clashing voices of the others. He addressed them all, but his eyes were on Newt. "We're gonna do what were  _always_  gonna shuckin' do! Make weapons and get the hell out of here! Why is this  _kid_  even under discussion?" Frypan's brash comment sparked off further debates. From the sound of things, most of the boys agreed with him. Minho walked back towards them and found some of them were already looking his way. He felt like a shucking ringleader with no shucking ring. Aris had stepped beside Newt, as silent as ever.   
  
"We can't- she... she was just put here." Newt said, but he must have known his argument was weak. "She'll die. We can't just leave her."   
  
"Fry's right." Minho said as softly as he could, he had to pretend his heart was as hard as stone, or maybe it was by now. "We don't have time for extra baggage, Newt. The kid-"   
  
"My name is  _Rosie!_ " The little girl shouted. "I'm not a kid, I'm just small.. I'm nine!" she was making her way onto Newt's shoulders and he made no effort to stop her. "I have to find my mom!"    
  
Jorge raised his eyebrows, contemplating. He displayed his open palms to the boys as if a solution was developing. Then he turned to Rosie again. He was as unpredictable as ever.   
  
"Do you know where your mommy went,  _niña_?"   
  
Rosie looked up from where she was burying her face into Newt's neck.    
  
"The mall! She went to find daddy, he's got the sickness really bad." Minho came in further into complete the semi-circle for a better look. Every pair of eyes looked towards Rosie to continue. She was suddenly very shy, and sunk into Newt, tucking her arms into her chest.  
"My mom is a 'munie, they all say so. She said I have the sickness now too. I'm a Crank."As she said it, she left a pause for reflection. Like her story was like no other child in the world, like she didn't expect them to understand right away. "Mom said I have to wait here until I am an angel." With this, she flapped her little arms like wings before looking ashamed of herself as if she had done something wrong. She deflated against Newt once more. "I'm not an angel yet, I'm still waiting."   
  
Rosie didn't look as though she knew the meaning behind anything she was saying. She was just a lost little girl, repeating the words from the last time she would ever hear her mother's voice. Reality rippled through the crowd of boys, causing an almost palpable stir of sorrow among them. The true hopelessness of this place was one they were now seeing first hand. The little girl struck a chord in the hearts of each Glader, even those willing to leave Rosie behind.   
  
Something hung in the air. Like the closing lament of a sad song. Rosie's mother, in the most loving way she could, had left her daughter here to die.   
  
"Listen, guys. We can't risk our necks for one kid." Minho started, feeling like the devil himself, though most of the boys looked prepared to understand. In their current situation, they simply could not afford to waste time. Especially not detouring for a little girl who said she was already a Crank. Newt was shaking his head at the ground. Minho tried to ignore it for the sake of leadership, but it was no use, it was all he could see.   
  
"We just can't, guys. We need to finish this shuck thing in the hope of saving maybe a  _bunch_  of kids like her." Minho said, what he said was brutal, but it made  _sense_. Newt looked directly at Minho then, disappointment was filling his angry eyes.   
  
Minho knew exactly what the look meant. It was like he saw a friend but heard a stranger. It was like he hoped to hear the best of Minho, but heard the worst of  _Alby_.    
"Who  _are_  you?" he spat.   
  
"Right, well, you're in luck, little hermana," Jorge started, failing like anyone would, in attempting to cut the tension between Minho and Newt. He wiggled a finger at Rosie. She snapped her teeth at it. "I'll tell you what. If you'd be kind enough to share any food you have with us, we were gonna head to the mall anyway. It's right at the end of the City. We'll help you find your mommy." He bowed humbly yet theatrically towards her, like a jester to a Queen.   
  
Minho sneered at the fact that Jorge would so quickly suggest the good-guy solution,. the easy answer which would no doubt get them into a load of klunk. Not to mention without any consultation towards the whole group, was that leadership? He tried to share a look with Newt to express the feeling. But catching the anger in each other’s eyes and reading it wrong, they dropped their gaze instantly. Newt flicked his eyes up to Jorge now. Rosie, sported the expression like that of a sceptical business owner. She extended a grubby pinky finger towards Jorge.   
"Promise?" She asked carefully.   
  
Jorge sucked his front teeth with his tongue, evidently hiding a smile by pretending to contemplate the contract. Then, as seriously as it was offered, he accepted the pinky oath.   
  
"Promise." He said sternly. "You just keep these boys in line. They'll make sure no crazy Cranks go biting of your little face off."   
She only frowned and snorted at him. He snapped at her in the same fear-mongering way he played with the Gladers. Something about Jorge's Crank-like habits were ostentacious, and felt rehearsed. Rosie's were forced as well, but in a different way. Like this animalistic behaviour was the only way she had ever seen other people behave. And she too, behaved this way so often, that it was now part of her. Something about her didn't seem like she was the Crank she thought she was.   
  
"We're all cranks, here, Rosie." Newt said to her gently when the group dispersed. He didn't look at Minho. "Won't let anyone hurt ya'. We're all on the same side."    
  
Rosie rocked her head against him; her trust in Newt came easily. Just as easily as it had come to every greenie that grew into a  Glader. Minho walked on ahead.  
  
He and Jorge made their way to the weapons as joint leaders and separate entities, walking the same way, but with different thoughts; the same goals, but with different reasons to achieve them, the same morals, with different ways of expression. They faced away from each other like enemies, when they were more like two different sides of the same coin; distant, alien to one another, but part of the same thing. Minho knew he felt more unlike Jorge than he had ever felt unlike a person, ever. Jorge, didn't care enough to even think about these things. They were not good cop, bad cop. They both had the good cop in them, yet they both had the bad cop there too. There was so much misunderstanding dividing them that they didn't even try to reach a mid-way point. Two leaders cannot lead a group when they are on opposing sides. But how can two leaders lead a group when they are very much on the same side, but believe the other to be against them? At a time so desperate, when there only is one side to choose?   
  
They tossed the weapons into the hands of the Gladers, who strapped them to their backs. They were ready to make further progress into the City. Minho was armed with two sharp knives. Which were actually sharpened slates tied to stubs of wood. Jorge left himself with a large sword-type dagger. The weapon was oddly reminiscent of Jorge himself as it was ridiculous and terrifying at the same time. They had enough of Rosie's food to last them until the end of the day. But not much further if they wanted to keep their energy.    
  
Newt walked weapon-less beside Minho as they made their way out of the alleys. Rosie had wanted her own weapon back and was now between the two of them. Tiny kitchen knife bared. She chattered on excitedly to no one in particular. Tension was still ripe between Minho and Newt. Despite the tension, which would lead into a fight soon. They still walked close. Minho had grown to know Newt well enough to be sure he wouldn't be angry at him for long. Newt had known Minho long enough, to know that he wasn't in need of his own weapons for protection. Like soulmates, or brothers, they were far too used to the comfort of their bond, too used to each other to appreciate each other as often as they should, or as often as they could; If things had been different.    
  
They had been together long enough to take each other's presence completely for granted.   
  
There was irony, in how Rosie looked like a child but felt like a Crank. When the boys looked like Cranks but felt like children. The now slightly extended group of Gladers made their way into the main streets of abandoned buildings. Jorge told them that far-gone Cranks were too scared to go this deep into the City. So they had avoided them at least.   
  
The heat was laying off and it was getting dusky. It must have been the late afternoon.   
  
Cranks or no Cranks, the City that they had earlier believed to be a deserted wasteland, was now something different.    
There were eyes in shattered windows now. There were shadows on the streets.   
 _They weren't alone anymore._  
This was an inhabited City.


	3. Shadows

Bleak, whispering streets. Unintelligible noises and lurking shadows. If they had ever known safety, they had firmly forgotten it now. This place that was supposed to be deserted was now something very frighteningly alive.

What was even more unsettling, was despite the irking feeling of something being around, nothing could be seen. Yet there was something in the slammed doors, there were voices in the wind. The eyes of each Glader followed dark shadow-like shapes in the corners of their eyes that moved too fast to be caught by a glance, and once followed turned into nothing at all.

Whistling through the legs of the group, was an uncomfortably warm wind, drawing them into this living-dead place in the most unwelcoming way.

There was life in this City, but a brooding and sickly life; one that was closer to death.

They huddled together on the fringes of the City, planning their advance. The creepy outskirts of the place had already felt the groups' trespassing. But the group couldn't fully enter the territory of the beady eyes and lazy shadows, without first preparing their entrance.

Jorge, had suggested to enter the place in two groups rather than a whole large one.

It was an instantly unpopular suggestion. Which had caused an uproar among the group that was not worth the trouble. It made more sense, according to Jorge, the more scattered and unlikely the groups looked, the less suspicious they would be to whatever breed of Cranks that populated this City. Walking in as a large and bizarre-looking group of boy scouts who had adopted a filthy little girl on the way was an absolute no-go. A group too large would be intimidating, and they would no doubt be assumed to have traveled all together. Which would be suspicious too, because such a thing rarely happened. A group too small would just be vulnerable. So their best option was to break in two; one group of seven, one group of six.

Due to Jorge's intimidating lectures, they were getting more and more educated on the ferocity of Cranks. Although their leader wasn't sure of the particular type that inhabited this exact area, it was no secret that Cranks can smell bonds between friends and use it against them to the best of their ability. They would catch any nervous glance shared, or read into any elbow to the gut to shut the other up. Those were likely to defend each other during any form of interrogation, were separated.

The majority of the boys dispersed among their group haphazardly and reluctantly in order to suggest nothing that even remotely suggested they had known each other long. It made sense that they had to make their groups look as desolate and thrown together as possible. They had to look detached, as unfamiliar with each other as they were with the City. They had to look totally blown together in order to be as absolutely unsuspicious as possible. The best way to give the impression that they were scattered and unfamiliar with each other, was to scatter them around and make it feel real.  
  
Even given everything that had happened to them up to this point, this was probably one of the most difficult things the Gladers had been asked to do; to part from each other willingly for an unknown period of time, and if worst came to worst, maybe forever. Separation from the closest thing they had to family, even for a short period of time, was a touchy thing to suggest.

Minho and Newt hadn't moved an inch.  
  
"No way." Minho had said.

"The last thing we need is more splittin' up." Newt said, but it came out more forlorn than firm, which was not how he had intended it. He coughed, not liking the lack of control in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

"Well if you think you need protected,  _papi_ ” Jorge said “Maybe you can find more toddlers along the way, eh? Gather an army of 'em." Minho snorted, Newt elbowed him accordingly.

"Let me tell ya' what to expect of this place." This came from Rosie, who was still between them in her little yellow coat. Grinning with her tiny knife bared. “ _I'm_  from around here."

"Kid, as far as we know, where you're from, is a  _trashcan_." Said Minho, whacking her lazily out from between himself and Newt with the back of his hand. "You don't make the rules."

"Monkey's right, kid." Jorge said. "Plus, it doesn't matter. Cranks don't spare locals."

"But I wanna  _heeelp_." Rosie whined. She slumped against Newt’s leg, glowering at Minho. "And I'm not _from_  the trashcan, duck-hair, I was just put there."

"And I won't be long puttin' you back in there if you don't shut your two-foot-tall trap!"

"Minho, shut it.” Newt said as he was used to doing, his eyes were closed.

“Yeah ‘Ninno.” Rosie mocked, Minho sneered at her.

“You too Rosie!” Newt snapped, and glared at Minho. “Hell, I bloody wonder who’s the child here."

"But hey, Jorge." This voice came from Frypan, he and the boys were darted around and visibly distressed.

"Why you gotta split us up the Shanks who know each other best?" He was cautiously looking at his friends. At this point, separation anxiety was understandable, and it was the top priority of the Gladers to stick together. He seemed to gather his nerves. "Like damn, as you can plainly see Newt's gonna have to be with Minho so he doesn't say something stupid and get killed. Minho's gotta stay with Newt so that he doesn't lose another leg and get killed."

As Minho and Newt bickered back in response it became like a dull roar of voices again.The Gladers talked over each other, exclaiming their worries about the splitting.

Jorge was raising his hands into the air in frustration. He brought them together loudly as he did before, silencing the group.

"Time to grow up,  _‘chachos_. First priority is survival, friendship comes second. We split up, no questions.” Jorge insisted, squaring right back against them as he felt the air of defensiveness forming.   
"Trust me, splitting up is key to getting into that place.” He continued. “It's only because this place has people checking to see who comes and who goes. But only on these outskirts, then we reassemble, and you babies can all suck your thumbs and whatever else together again. ¿Vale?"

"Still, why do we have to be so cautious?" Aris blurted in. "You said Cranks were too scared to go this deep into the City." It felt like the first time Aris had raised his voice among the Gladers to anyone since Thomas, some of them had forgotten he had a voice.

"That's because I'm pretty sure these aren't Cranks,  _amigo_ , at least not fully. They're near-gones, at best bet.” Jorge slid a metal lighter out from his pocket as he spoke and began to flick the flame on and off, on and off.

“These guys are gone enough to be scary as hell and sane enough to be smart with their madness. They know they're doomed and they're ready to have fun with anything that looks remotely fragile before they go full-crazy. And  _trust me_  you kids look remotely fragile."

No one was reassured, and with the suggestion still unwelcome, the boys had only huddled together in protest. They faced Jorge in a pack, with their matching bruises and identical scowls.

They looked startlingly like a bunch of unwanted pets; or more appropriately, angry lab-rats that had all been hit with the same hand and felt the same hurt. The irony of this, was very amusing to Jorge.

So they had returned to the drawing board, and continued bickering over their entrance plan as the sky above them started to drift to sleep.

They could agree on avoiding, for as long as they could, heavy-hearted goodbyes that felt like goodbyes forever. Their new approach was to sneak into the City in secret. Jorge had insisted his original idea, but sneaking in was approved by the majority.

Lined up against a sheltering wall, the group moved slowly and surely through the sinking sand, Jorge was in front. In a line behind him, the boys were nervous, clumsy shadows against the wall. Jorge’s subtlety came with an ease they longed to achieve, but the Gladers sunk behind him. With their backs hunched with tiredness and fear, the shadows wearily followed.  
  
As they made progress, silence had fallen like the evening soon would. There was only the sound of the thick wind and what was either knocking weaponry or shaking knees from the Gladers. They made their way from the broken outskirts to the shadowed streets and sturdier buildings, going deeper into the City. Despite the fear of the unknown, they longed for shelter and heat-relief. The mountain ahead, stood high and majestic. It framed the lost city like a halo, the hazy sleepy heat of the air made it seem otherworldly; like a dream, or a mirage. They still had almost a week to make it to the Safe Haven.

They were almost there, sweat was beading on their brows. If they could just make it into the main City, they could look like any other group of Cranks passing through - but a low, throaty cough made the Gladers suddenly aware of possible extra footprints in the back of their line.   
  
Jorge cursed in Spanish, sinking into the shadow of the boiling building. The boys did the same, their feet sinking into the sand. Minho let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding, they had been so close, but the feeling of someone around pushed their hearts up into their throats. Tight against the wall, they willed invisibility. Newt was counting them all again before nodding curtly toward Minho, his expression firm but his eyes wavering and afraid. Minho caught the little nod and winked reassuringly.

It was apparently a false alarm. They fell into step again, slowly moving deeper into the City.

The phlegm-filled cough that didn’t belong to the group, came again, followed by a tiny yelp from the back. They stilled against the wall once more, turning their heads, Rosie was gone.  
Then their head all turned to Jorge in sync, he glared at each face. No one dared move a muscle.  
  
“Let  _go!_  Put me-” From around the corner, a stranger walked out into the sun. He held Rosie in one arm, covering her mouth with the other. She was struggling furiously in his grip. The figure stopped in front of the group.  
  
His large legs had strode easily through the moving sandy surface, sinking only slightly with his weight. As the group turned to face him, they saw he had white hair reaching way past shoulders. He was enormously fat, ears and face pierced, with tattoos all over. He wore a white shirt that was closer to grey, with a tight bolo tie that made him look even rounder.

"Well.. ain't you a funny lookin' bunch a' stragglers." The man said in a low, husky voice. "What bring's y'all here? The circus in town?" He laughed sickeningly at his own joke.

Jorge brushed his hands together from the front of the line. He stepped out of the shadow, the boys followed. Despite the despair that came with their "subtle tactics" having completely failed, Jorge showed none of this on his face. Not even a single ounce of ' _I told you so'_. Instead he looked as relaxed as having just bumped into an old friend.

"Something like that." He responded, he opened his mouth to speak again.

"Folks don't often take trips ‘round here..." The man interrupted quickly. He walked around in front of the group with a cocky stride, the little girl still dangling in his grip and trying to bite his hands. His eyes were moving between the boys slowly as if drinking every detail about them; the bruises on their collarbones, the sunburnt tips of their ears, the freckles on their noses, the  _fear_ on their breath.

"You must either be lost, or your mind's are halfway to lost, like the rest of us!" Again he laughed a grizzly laugh, full of menace, nightmares and phlegm. The laugh grew into a heavy cough.

Despite the element of Crank that was so present in his voice, his eyes darted around, sharp and alert. Despite the swerve in his step as he moved around them, he stood up straight and still. Something about the man didn't add up.

“Give her  _back!_ ” Newt barked suddenly, darting forward so fast that he almost stumbled. The sudden boldness that was so unlike Newt’s soft, observant nature had startled them all. He seemed to have startled himself too, as he dropped the fat man's gaze and retreated back into the shadows. The man only raised an eyebrow, continuing to look along the row of boys with his lazy, merciless eyes.

"Quit sizing us up like we're prize cattle!" Minho yelled then. "Look man, we know what we're doing, leave us alone! We're from  _WICKED._ " Minho said, emphasising the last slice of his words as if it was something intimidating. If there was one thing Minho hated more than authority, it was intimidating authority. It made words tumble out of his mouth like useless, careless objects. The group had to hide every part of them that wanted to groan and punch him. Jorge could only close his eyes slowly, Newt could only grip his own wrists behind his back.

The fat man had turned to Minho then, his expression was oddly bright and unreadable. Rosie had stopped struggling, she just looked at the boys with scared eyes. The man looked Minho up and down, taking mental note. Then, as if he read him inside out, he did Minho's least favourite thing, he completely and utterly ignored him; directing his words and questions only to Jorge.

"S'pose you know where you're going, huh sonny?"

"We have the Flare too." Jorge said, ignoring the small talk. He kicked some dust towards Minho, frustration in the force. His eyes widened at him with warning. "Kid's got it  _bad_. Talking crazy."

"Seems to think he's from WICKED, got anything smart to say about that?" Suddenly the white-haired guys' words were moving between assured and clipped, and riddled with long country vowels. If Jorge was hard to read, this Crank was a language of his own.  
  
He strode up to Jorge, before stopping fast. He swung his jaw to face the boys.

"I got a buddy called Thomas from WICKED. Heard of him?" His eyes narrowed, and glided along them all, soaking up every pained reaction.  
  
"We lost him." Minho said quickly. Making sure to distract him from Newt's quickened breaths and the uneasy looks that he could see exchanged in his peripheral vision. Though like most of what he said, it hadn't made it to his head first.

The man nodded before he snickered like a school boy graced with a dirty joke. His huge intimidating body seemed to loosen as it shook with laughter. The boys looked between each other and this unreadable, baffling man.

He threw Rosie into the sand in front of him; Newt bounded towards her and stood her up from the dust. She struggled out of his grip and re-adjusted her tough expression.

"Aw, I'm just messin'!” The man said. “I don't know shit about them signs about a "Thomas". Y'all are free to pass on through, just fine' yerself' a nice cosy nook to go crazy in."

The group of boys carried on quickly into the City. Some stopped to dote on Rosie and dust her off. She was embarrassed by both her vulnerability and the sudden attention, so she snapped at them and bared her knife. Minho was concerned about Newt’s outburst. The group abandoned their sneaking line altogether. Relieved, naive and heavy with tiredness, their senses weren't as sharp as Jorge's. Who waited as the large man walked back to the alley he came from.  
The stride was back in his fat legs. Jorge stood deep in the sand, watching all the boys as he stood still.

"But if I did know somethin' about them signs." Jorge craned his neck to listen to the hateful voice that came from the alley. He clicked his teeth like a lighter forming flame.  
"I guess I’d know that he's not with the rest of his bunch. Reckon I'd know how he'd be  _dressed_  too, wouldn't I?"

The man sunk away, back into the shadows; his sickly laugh still hung in the air behind him. For a moment, Jorge looked ahead at the  _identically_  dressed boys. Slumping their arms over each other like the children and idiots they were.  
They walked ahead into the evening glow of the City, unaware that in their clumsy words, they may have just told the Crank exactly what he needed to know about Thomas.  
  
Jorge spared that moment to think about Brenda and the boy. Their whereabouts, their safety, and how their own friends may have just doomed them both.

But he couldn't dwell on the thought for long.  
For now, this group was safe, at least. They had made it successfully into the City of the half-gone Cranks.

Some of which, with the sun now down, were emerging from their hiding places.


End file.
